


Dulce et Decorum

by je_t_oublie



Category: Star Trek: Deep Space Nine
Genre: Discussion of war, Garak's POV, Literary Discussion, M/M, Pre-Relationship, The Universal Translator is a mythical beast I have not conquered, early sixth season, pessimism on Bashir's part, the defiant
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-22
Updated: 2018-09-22
Packaged: 2019-07-15 11:10:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,334
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16061897
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/je_t_oublie/pseuds/je_t_oublie
Summary: "Just because we do not have our normal table does not mean your fascinating views on literature have to go unheard.”





	Dulce et Decorum

**Author's Note:**

> Early sixth season Bashir goes through a definite low period which is such a change from the first five seasons that I needed to write something for it. 
> 
> The title is from the poem discussed, and linked to in the end notes.  
> Also does the U.T. know Latin? It's a complicated subject and reading the Wikipedia pages did not help

The Defiant was remarkably quiet for its small size, hallways empty and doors closed wherever Garak ventured. Admittedly, the war looming over them was likely not the most heartening thing for the Federation crew but Garak was too restless to stay quietly in his spartan quarters like the others not on duty, too accustomed to the illusion of freedom on Terok Nor to be comfortable with being so easily found in an indefensible position. Walking seemed the only recourse, carefully placed footsteps avoiding dead ends and alcoves, wary of being trapped by anyone in spite of the empty corridors. It was a frustratingly limited way of keeping up his physical training from the Order, but fortunately the mind had no such enclosing borders, and he kept an eye on each door as he passed, quarters assignments and rosters so helpfully recorded for the Federation, updated every time they left Starbase 375. Ensign Knight, sharing with Graves. Webb and Bosworth on the other side of the corridor, and ah, he had known that he was close to the lacklustre infirmary. Lt Bashir, J.S., and Garak paused, focusing his attention only to the surrounding noises, but there was nothing beyond the barely audible hum of the Defiant at warp. 

Might as well seek out a pleasant diversion, and even if Bashir wasn’t there, it would be a welcome stretching of his fingers to break into Federation technology. His manual sewing kit would do, tweezers strong and slim enough to pop the panel off the locking mechanism, and he gently lowered it to the ground. A pin to move around wires, plastic top suitable insulation and really, he could never mention this to Bashir but those holosuite programs did have their merit. No one was surprised when a tailor had a small sewing kit with him, and commissioning the tools to be made out of more durable metals had been well worth it for their multiplied uses. Wires manipulated and tools safely stowed, he pushed the panel back in and held a hand over the scanner until it registered him as the room's owner and the door obligingly slid open. 

“Ah, good evening doctor. What a pleasant surprise.”

“Surprise? This is my room, Garak. My locked room. How did you even get in?” 

“Years on the station have prepared me for malfunctioning locks. Only a few weeks before we left my shop door sealed itself and would not respond to any of the old codes. I managed to reproduce that particular malfunction before our departure, fortunately. May I?” 

Garak gestured to a stack of crates in the corner, emblazoned with the medical department insignia of a Terran creature curved around a staff, identical to those stacked in the top recessed bunk. 

“Just don’t break anything.” Julian was folded into the bottom bunk, limbs tightly tucked around a glowing padd, but his eyes tracking Garak's placement of two of the medical supply crates, a mimicry of a table and chair, two steaming cups from the replicator safely on the crate between them, carefully positioned around the bracing holding the crate together. 

Bashir was uncharacteristically quiet, and Garak could see shadows under his eyes thrown into relief by the padd's light. The thin mattresses on the Defiant couldn’t have been offering the doctor the support needed for such a position, but he looked like he had been like that for a long time, and Garak could hear the sound of a regnar that had been caught too long in the desert sun, limbs cracking and fragmenting when a young and ungentle Cardassian had tried to pick it up and only succeeding in losing the pieces to the sands. 

But Bashir was unfolding himself, nothing but the hushing noises of fabric moving and the quiet thump of the padd abandoned in the sheets as he reached for his mug and cradled it against his chest. Well, this wouldn’t do – it was just as boring as walking those unchanging corridors, and it didn’t look like the good doctor was interested in offering anything more than a token protest at his slightly less than legal intrusion. Bashir hadn’t even bothered to bring up the differences between the stations Cardassian locks and the Defiant’s Federation ones! Garak clapped his hands together gently, claws clicking and a thin smile on his face once the doctor had finally lifted his eyes from contemplation of his cooling drink. 

“Well my dear, what have you been reading? Just because we do not have our normal table does not mean your fascinating views on literature have to go unheard.”

“There’s not much time for anything but reports, Garak, and I have no doubt you've got your own access to those.”  
“Ah, but one does not lounge like that while reading, doctor. Your reports are always read with a posture stiffer than those of the statues lining Tarlak sector. It helps you concentrate, I believe you have said.”  
Julian took a long draught from his mug before answering. “Poetry, Garak, and no, it’s not Shakespeare.”  
“A mercy not to have that inflicted once more. The Bolian Effenterre? Your Whitman? Or have you finally seen sense and embraced Iloja of Prime to your bosom?”

“Dulce et decorum est pro patria mori.” 

The words were heavily accented, a fluidity he had not heard before in that voice and Garak frowned, a hand trailing towards the ridges that led to his ears and the technology nestled safely behind it. “If that is not a surprisingly long name, I am afraid my translator is struggling with it, doctor.” 

“Latin, beyond what the Federation uses for naming systems, may not have been loaded into the database. It was an ancient language from a culture whose empire dominated a great part of the known earth at one time.” 

“Ah, your Federation’s early attempts at empire building. But that does not translate it, my dear.” 

“It is sweet and right to die for one’s country.” 

“And quite rightly. A good, and may I say a Cardassian ideal of yours I can agree with. It is a duty we are brought up with, though on a scale more ambitious than merely country.” 

“As were a lot of humans, but I don’t quite think you'd like the way this man was using it. He was a poet who died only a week before humanity’s first world war ended. He talks about what it was like for him and other soldiers on the front lines. Mud, gas...” The doctor's face was sombre, normally animated hands tight around his empty mug trying to chase a heat that had already dispersed, and Garak debated whether it would be too harsh for their already fragile relationship to mention their current situation but his hesitation was cut short.

“It was used by a professor at Starfleet Academy, dissuading eager young cadets from glorifying battle. Yet here we are.” He raised his mug, an empty toast to the Federation, the Dominion. 

“And here we fight, my dear doctor. It is better than bowing our heads as Dukat has on behalf of Cardassia.” 

“I know it’s necessary, Garak, but I can’t rejoice in our victories when I know the losses for both sides!” His fingers were pressing into the mug now, white with the pressure as he barely missed slamming it onto the medical supplies crate, eyes alight in a way that they had never had during their lunches on the station. 

“Your Federation may put such an emphasis on individual lives, doctor, but both the Jem Ha'dar and the Cardassians see it as our obligation. They have no such compunctions and I suggest, for your own sanity, you see it that way.” Garak leaned closer over the storage box servicing them as a table, fingers brushing Bashir’s inert hand that had fallen from the mug, slumped after the outburst like its owner in his seeming despair. “Your compassion may have been your strength as a doctor, but as a soldier it is a weakness you cannot afford.” 

And he could hear it in his own native tongue, sibilance and drawn out vowels broadcasting his own weakness for the man in front of him, a sacrifice at the altar to his friend, Hebetian sentimentality and respect for life and everything unspoken that could be safely disguised in their filtered and translated speech. No need to actually be as brazen as to speak it in the unyielding words. 

But the doctor was snatching his hand away and recoiling back into the recessed bunk, and Garak did not need his U.T. to translate the look on his face, open and unhindered by concealing ridges and scales. “I am not a soldier, Garak. I am a doctor.” The words were cold, sharp and biting and Garak missed the old warmth of their debates that he could bask in. This was the chill of the station he had woken up to when his wire had been removed, but instead of the lone source of warmth this new Bashir was just as cold. 

Their staring, calm and collected on side, wild and furious on the other, was punctured by the inappropriately cheerful chirp of the communicator and Julian’s eyes slowly closed, shoulders taut and movements sharply exaggerated as he hit his chest to activate the com system. 

“Bashir here.”

“We're coming up on the damaged Alexander, Doctor. We need you up here in case of casualties.” 

The face was defeated, but tone professional as he confirmed and Julian tipped his face to the ceiling of his bunk, throat bared to Garak in a way that was far too trusting in front of anybody, let alone some who was part of a race on the other side of the war. 

His voice was quiet and the shadowed stillness was uncharacteristic, only that bare throat and pulse visibly moving. “That old lie, Garak.” 

He stood, movements mechanic, and leaving his mug on the storage box beside Garak’s own. Hesitating at the door but his face turned away, he said “If you wouldn’t mind please stacking the crates again? I'm not in the mood to trip on them later.” 

“Of course, doctor. It sounds like the Alexander has injuries enough without your bruised knees.”

The only answer was the door quietly engaging, and Garak cocked his head, waiting for the footsteps to grow faint enough to be out of the Cardasssian hearing range. The doctor’s sheets were will warm as he rifled through them for the padd, carefully typing in the authorisation code Bashir had not even bothered to attempt concealing from him for the past few years. The poem was still open, only a page, but the intimacy of their years of discussions allowed him the understanding of how Bashir's Federation idealism could have been dampened by this Owen. Well, if leaving him alone was going to result in Bashir reading such materials, it was not only in both their interests, but the also in aid of the war against the Dominion that this was put an end to. As for himself, it would be more difficult to find Garak if he were in quarters not assigned to him, and no doubt the good doctor was sentimental enough not to bodily remove him, nor passively allow others to harm him in their own room. Garak eyed the crate placement in comparison to the dimensions of the room and let out an inaudible sigh. It would not be pleasant, but benefits outweighed the risks in this case, and he set to work. 

\--

Garak had counted four hours from the Bajoran twenty six hour cycle they still adhered to before the doctor returned. The quiet footsteps outside the door were slower, but the weight was the same and Garak shifted himself to cast one last look over the rearranged room. The boxes from the top bunk had left what was remained of the floor space verging on uncomfortable, but several of the piles had been adjusted to be easily toppled on assailants if necessary and his bag was prominently displayed beside the doctor’s few personal items and a stack of padds. That did not mean there was anything of importance to him in it, those had been secreted around the room and his outfits, but he assumed the good doctor was bright enough to understand the significance. The door whooshed open and he settled more securely under the blankets he had liberated from his assigned room, but could still smell the sterilising agents and gels that had been used on burns. 

“Computer, lights up to seventy percent. Garak, out.” 

Ah, clearly not as acquiescent as he had planned for. Garak let out a quiet sigh as if asleep, well aware that he had been trained out of that decades ago, but that the doctor likely wouldn’t realise. He was mimicked with a much louder and more aggravated sigh, and a quiet thump of a body collapsing into the bunk beneath him. 

“I know you’re awake, and you’re leaving as soon as I've slept. Computer, lights ten percent.” 

The end of the sentence was punctuated by part of one of those hideous Starfleet jumpsuits being thrown at one of the stacked crates, and Garak stifled a satisfied smile. A single surrender made each following one that much easier, and all he would have to do now would be to regularly edit any changes to the quarter assignments, and make himself scarce if he knew Bashir would be in here for long stretches without sleeping. 

There were muffled complaints from below as a boot thunked onto the floor, but all he could decipher were references to being ‘too tired for spying', and ‘lizards’ that slowly trailed off into slow breaths. Garak folded his hands over his chest and closed his eyes, mentally setting a timer to wake in a few hours. Room secured, an extra distraction for any assailants and the occasional nudges towards better literature for his friend. A successful, if unplanned, mission.

**Author's Note:**

> The poem Julian is reading is Dulce et Decorum by Wilfred Owen. If you do choose to read it, it's graphic and heartbreaking, but so is war.  
> https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/46560/dulce-et-decorum-est
> 
>  
> 
> 'Tis not too late to seek a newer world is still being worked on, but this story demanded to be written while I was reading poetry in my own time.
> 
> (Edit: I was talking to my father about Owen (who is related down his side) and realised I misquoted part of the poem. Thanks dad, for putting an end to that embarrassment.)


End file.
